


A Most Peculiar Man

by havisham



Category: Original Work
Genre: Competence Kink, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Love/Hate, M/M, Musicals, Operettas, Pining, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-22 11:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16596653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: Tristan Beauregarde had once been the most beautiful, talented and well-regarded operetta singer on the continent. Royalty regularly fell in love with him. Other singers could only hope to imitate the rich timbre of his voice. Audiences flocked to his performances. He was at the top of the world.But that was almost twenty years ago and time had stolen all of that.





	A Most Peculiar Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chantefable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/gifts).



Tristan Beauregarde had once been the most beautiful, talented and well-regarded operetta singer on the continent. Royalty regularly fell in love with him. Other singers could only hope to imitate the rich timbre of his voice. Audiences flocked to his performances. He was at the top of the world. 

But that was almost twenty years ago and time had stolen all of that. First, his beauty: he was still good-looking, for his age. Indeed, in certain lights, he seemed almost unchanged from his prime. But the lighting was not always ideal. And otherwise, his age was significant for his profession, which favored youth entirely too much. Then, his talent. Years of belting out songs had taken a toll on his voice, sapping it of its strength and durability.

As for his reputation … 

Well, to be frank, it was in _tatters._

It had started when the critic Geoffrey Pope had done some digging into Tristan’s past. Pope had always hated him, from the very moment of his premiere. Tristan had no idea why -- perhaps he had ignored Pope when he had introduced himself at the gala hosted by old Duke of Darlington that had served as Tristan’s introduction into high society. There had been so many people there, and so many who were eager for Tristan’s attention… So, yes, he had ignored Pope’s outstretched hand. And in the ensuing years, he’d paid dearly for his rudeness. 

As a performer, one had to accept that one’s work would not touch all hearts alike. That was to be expected. Not everyone would adore you, no matter how adorable you were. But Geoffrey Pope was different. He seemed to go out of the way to point out Tristan’s flaws and foibles. On nights Tristan sounded pitchy or raspy, he knew that Pope would certainly be in the audience to hear. 

At first, such dogged dislike was almost amusing, in a way. Or it had been until Pope wrote that exposé of Tristan’s tragic past and showed the world all the things that Tristan had hoped to keep hidden. 

First, his name wasn’t really Tristan Beauregarde of some grand, but fallen European aristocratic family at all, but Tip Goodlicks of Frogtown, a grocer’s assistant’s son and of no aristocratic blood whatsoever. In and of itself, it wouldn’t have been such a shock -- no one truly believed what they saw on the stage, surely? But there was the fact that Tip had once been convicted of stealing from and impersonating his social superiors… 

Scandal was the spice to a performer’s life. Tristan thought he could weather the storm well enough, but then his patron had the bad manners to die. And with the Duke of Darlington died all the funds that had been given to him to live in the manner he had become accustomed to. And there was suddenly a new singer on stage, with bewitching blue eyes and a voice as powerful as a foghorn’s. And just as suddenly, the great Tristan Beauregarde was yesterday’s news.

Some years passed in that way. Tristan, semi-retired and bored out of his mind, thought desperately of leaving the city and moving to a cottage by the sea. Well, perhaps he couldn’t quite afford a cottage directly by the sea, but within a fifteen minute walk from it. But then, his luck turned around. A new operetta had been commissioned by the new Duke of Darlington, a recent widower, and there was a part in it for Tristan Beauregarde, if he wanted it. 

And of course, Tristan wanted it. 

*

“A little to the left, Mr. Beauregarde,” said Linus, the lighting designer who made Tristan look divine. Technology had certainly progressed at a breakneck speed since the last time Tristan had trotted on stage in earnest, and Linus seemed to know all about it. Of all the people working on this new production, it seemed Linus had been one of his most ardent fans. Shyly, he admitted that he’d studied lighting design in hopes that he would work with Tristan and been devastated when Tristan retired. 

“I’m so thrilled that you came back, Mr. Beauregarde,” Linus gushed. “I’ve always wanted to work with you.” 

“Please, call me Tristan,” he said, training on Linus the smile that had won him hearts all over the world. Linus gave him a dazzled look in return. But fortunately, no matter how bewitching Tristan’s smile, Linus still could do his job better than anyone else. 

He seemed to be able to make Tristan look marvelous. The light around him seemed to put a new glow to his cheek, a shine to his dark hair and glitter to the silvered edges. When it was Tristan’s turn to sing his first aria, it seemed like the old days again. The audience seemed to be holding their breath, wondering if he still had it. 

He did. As he sang, it seemed as though he held their hearts in his hand, to do with as he wished. Once upon a time, Tristan would have only taken it as his due. But no longer. Years without love made him take the audience’s adoration with the seriousness it deserved. 

He’d longed for it, and now he had it back. If only he could keep it! 

Outside the bright cone of Linus’ light, the audience was dark except for the flashes of a woman’s fan or someone’s opera glasses. As Tristan looked out to it and sang, he felt that even Geoffrey Pope, if he was watching, could find no fault with him. 

*

Afterwards, there was a party for the new Duke of Darlington and four hundred of his closest friends, including Tristan. He wasn’t the star of the show and as such, he had to be content in occupying a corner of the ballroom and gossiping with Miranda, a mezzo-soprano who had begun her career at the same time as he had. They recognized within each other the same grim tenacity, coupled with practiced effervescence, that became second nature to them both. 

“I heard that Pope left after your solo,” said Miranda with a flutter of her fan. “Could it be that he still nurses that grudge against you after all of these years?” 

“Likely so,” Tristan said with a sigh. “Honestly, I have no idea what I did to offend him. There have been less talented men than me that he’s praised.” 

“Well,” Miranda said with a wicked gleam in her eye. “To be honest, darling, I could perhaps give you some guidance there. Did you know that he saw your very first performance in the city?” 

“Impossible!” Tristan said. “In that rat-infested theater? It only seated a hundred. I would’ve seen him.” 

“He wasn’t Geoffrey Pope then, he was just another writer hoping the old Duke of Darlington would mount his play. It never happened, but he eventually found that vicious critiques brought in more money than any play could. But I’ve read his first play, Tristan. And you wouldn’t believe what the lead looks like …” 

“A play? No singing whatsoever?” Tristan said. He found that he wasn’t particularly surprised by Miranda’s revelation that Pope had once held him in enough regard to write a part for him. He assumed that the critic no longer felt that way. 

“Foolishly, I thought your acting talent might have been stronger than your singing,” said Geoffrey Pope himself. He always did like to sneak about. It took all of Tristan’s oft-slandered acting talent not to flinch in surprise. Miranda laughed. 

“How long have you been listening in, you vain creature?” 

“Gossiping loudly in a public place isn’t the smartest thing to do if you don’t want to be overheard,” Pope declared. He was much the same as ever -- tolerably handsome, but in a hard-edged sort of way that Tristan had never cared for. He had the thickest eyebrows and the smallest glasses -- so small that they were impractical -- of anyone in the room. Just looking at him annoyed Tristan. 

“How are you, Pope?” Tristan said with a wide, friendly smile. “I hope you enjoyed the performance tonight.” 

“I couldn’t say. You’ll have to read about it tomorrow,” Pope said with a dismissive sniff. “Perhaps the young duke will have cause to regret his generosity soon.” 

“I doubt that,” Tristan said, rising. “He’s a kind man who learned to love opera thanks to his uncle. An unkind review won’t change his mind.” 

“I don’t write unkind reviews, I write impartial and accurate ones.” 

“I know you’re _very_ impartial and accurate when it comes to me,” Tristan replied. “And I’ve always appreciated that.” 

Pope regarded him suspiciously. “What are you up to, Beauregarde?” 

“Me?” Tristan said innocently. “Whatever do you mean?” 

“You’re not the kind to take insults lying down.” 

“So you _did_ mean to insult me.” 

“No, but the old Beauregarde would have rushed to that conclusion.” 

“Well,” Tristan said with a sigh. “You’re always noting how old and tired I look when I sing. Perhaps now I’ve gotten a little bit of maturity with those wrinkles. Now, if you would excuse me, I must pay my respects to our host. Miranda, dear. It was lovely to see you.” 

Miranda smiled, delighted at the scene she had witnessed and offered him a delicate hand to kiss, which he did. After that, Tristan bid the frowning Pope an airy goodbye and made his escape. 

The young Duke of Darlington was a fresh-faced young man of about thirty-two. He gave the impression of being in impossibly good health, at all times, which made Tristan, who always tended towards malinger, feel almost ill in contrast. He beamed when he spotted Tristan and beckoned him closer. 

“I’ve heard nothing but good things about your performance, Tristan,” said the duke. “I’m so glad that you agreed to come out of retirement for this.” 

“I felt as though I had to,” Tristan said. “For your uncle’s sake -- and because you asked so earnestly, your grace.” 

“Yes,” said the duke. “My uncle has touched so many lives here. I am still the new and young Duke of Darlington here. But I hope that one day I will be the one people remember.” 

“You must give them time,” Tristan said soothingly. “How is your daughter?” 

“She’s as well as can be expected,” he said with a sigh. “She ran away from the convent school twice, so I sent her to a progressive boarding school in London. But now she writes that she’s become a socialist.” 

“A socialist duchess, that would be something new, at least,” Tristan said, taking two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and handing one to the duke “Lady Isabella has a good head on her shoulders, as shown by her escapes from those nuns.” Frogtown had nuns too, cruel ones, and Tristan would never forgive any of them. 

“Well, Tristan, I can’t keep you,” Darlington said with some regret. “Your adoring public demands to see you.” 

“Adoring public?” Tristan said with a laugh, taking a step backwards. “You must be thinking of someone else.” 

The smile on the duke’s face slipped off, replaced by an expression of alarm. “Tristan, look out!” 

But it was too late. Having stepped away from the Duke of Darlington, Tristan was in the direct line of a cart loaded with a hundred-pound molded jelly that had been laboriously pushed by two servers. At that moment, one server slipped on something and tripped his companion. The jelly escaped their clutches and began to careen towards Tristan. 

Tristan was not aware of the danger until the very last moment. Someone shoved him away, but not before he was hit with a heavy wallop of blood-red jelly. His vision was dyed and he knew nothing for a long time. 

*

When he came to, he was in an unfamiliar bed, with three people looking down at him anxiously. One of them was well-bred looking man, who had been holding his hand -- though he hastily let go when he realized that the patient was now awake -- the other had the smallest glasses he’d had ever seen on anyone. The front of both men’s tuxedos were dyed a sickening red color. The other person was a young man, who, fortunately, was not so marked out. 

“Thank goodness you’re all right, Mr. Beauregarde!” said the young man. “We were very worried when you wouldn’t wake up. The Duke of Darlington wanted to take you to the hospital!” 

“The Duke of Darlington? That old leach?” he said with a frown. He couldn’t place any of these who were crowded around his bedside. At least -- He snatched the glasses away from one of the men’s face and gasped. “Why, it’s Jiffy Pope! What are _you_ doing here, Jiffy? Shouldn’t you be in some freezing garett somewhere, writing your play?” 

Jiffy turned as red as his tuxedo front. “So you _do_ remember, Tip. Finally.” 

“Why would I forget?” Tip replied. Then he looked over Jiffy’s shoulder to a large, gilt-edged mirror and caught his reflection on it. There was no helping it. Tip screamed, and fainted. 

*

When Tip came to for the second time, he was in hospital bed, with a grave-looking doctor who explained about temporary memory loss and other things that Tip couldn’t possibly be expected to understand. Eventually, Tip began to piece together what had happened. He’d been hit with a hundred pounds of jelly and lost the memory of the last twenty years.

Had he really achieved his dream of being one of the world’s best opera singers? Did the whole world know of Tip Goodlicks, the singer of grand opera? 

“No,” said Jiffy, the only familiar face Tip could recognize now. “You don’t sing grand opera, and no one knows you as Tip Goodlicks. You chose to go back to the name Tristan Beauregarde, and you sang operettas until you retired five years ago in a fit of pique. Then, last night, you returned on the stage and got run over by a cart of jelly.” 

“You’ve always been jealous of my skills, Jiffy,” Tip said loftily. “So, did you ever put on that play you were always talking about?” 

Jiffy muttered something about being busy. “I’m called Geoffrey now, I’d appreciate it if you’d call me that too. Or, call me Pope, like you usually do.” 

“Why would I call you by your last name? We grew up together, practically. We’re Frogtown boys, aren’t we?” 

“Yes, well. Frogtown got bulldozed a dozen years ago. And while you were Tristan Beauregarde, you didn’t seem to remember any of that.” 

Tip was silent for a long moment. “You know I went to jail for a few months, after my mum died.” 

“Yes,” Jiffy said somberly. 

“Well, while I was there, I thought -- if I could change myself completely, I would be happier. Tip was a mess, and had no hope of changing things. But perhaps Tristan could be better. You were right that I’m not a good actor. I couldn’t pretend to be a different person -- I had to become one. And that meant forgetting you. Sorry, Jiffy.” 

“That’s very … strange.” 

“Isn’t it? I’m a very interesting person, I think.” 

“Well --” 

“Could I ask you something, Jif -- I mean, Geoffrey?” 

“What is it?” 

“Why do you hate me? It’s always the same with you, even before all this. Every time I try to be your friend, you push me away, like I did something wrong. But I’m pretty sure I haven’t -- not about this, anyway.” 

Geoffrey sighed. “I don’t _hate_ you. I’ve always … Well, since you won’t remember this, I’ll tell you. I’ve always loved you, Tip. I thought that someday, we would be together. But then you got out of prison and became another person and you didn’t even remember me. I suppose I was hurt and lashed out.” 

“You lashed out for twenty straight years? What stamina!” 

“It’s not like that, you deserved every one of my criticisms.” 

“But you still love me,” Tip said with a grin. “Even when I’m Tristan Beauregarde, you still do.” 

“Shut up,” Geoffrey muttered, looking down. He was wearing a different pair of glasses that day, a pair that complimented his face better and made him look less like he was wearing some absurd disguise. 

“And if I was Tristan again, would you mind it?” 

“What do you mean?” Geoffrey said suspiciously. 

“The doctors said the memory loss would pass in a few days,” Tristan explained, vaguely apologetic. “But I seem to remember everything now. Thank you for that confession, anyway. Miranda will be pleased to know that she was right.” 

“You little bastard, was that all a trick?” 

“No! For the first few hours, I was genuinely confused. And I traumatized the poor Duke of Darlington with more stories about his awful uncle. Well, at least he won’t have to feel that he isn’t as good as that old coot anymore. I think it’s really for the best. He really is a nice man, our new Duke of Darlington.” 

“Forget about that idiotic boy! What about me?” 

“What about you? Aren’t you still in love with me?” 

“Not if you’re not,” Geoffrey muttered. 

Tristan laughed and kissed him. “You’re going to have rewrite that play for a part I can do. And add songs, will you? I know you love my singing.” 

“You’re impossible,” Geoffrey replied and kissed him back. “I regret this already.” 

But he was smiling when he said it, and Tristan was smiling too. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my betas! 
> 
> Title from Simon & Garfunkel.


End file.
